I. Big Brothers
One hot day
I followed the boys
they lifted manhole covers
we climbed down into dry
concrete storm drains
together we trekked
the underground maze
a mile from home
Mother knew
they taught me to spit
ride a bike
stand on my hands
but never about
The sewer pipes
II. Indian Summer
Mom braided my hair
I climbed pines in the woods
an Indian scout
living on deer flesh
bark I peeled from the trees
but never really ate
my best friend and I played
on the banks of the creek
behind the woods
trying to dam up the flow
waiting for beavers
but they never came
II. General Wayne Park
Mornings of arts and crafts
we made lariats
wove baskets
swapped trading cards
near the water fountain
played marbles on the
softball diamond
by the end of July
red blisters on our hands
from hanging
on the metal merry-go-round
turned to calluses
IV. Dusk
I went outside in my nightie
hair still wet
Dad gave me a peanut–butter jar
holes punched in the lid
to capture
lightning bugs
within seconds I let them go
while my mean brothers
ripped off their heads
and made diamond rings
copyright, Kristin Strid, 2009 For six hours I pace I meant to tell you I watched
In the Family Waiting Area
wait for word
they cut the cancer out
checked the margins
closed you up
about a late afternoon
in Ireland
high above the sea
a lone swimmer
stroking with precision
miles away
across the bay
A loon-like speck
bobbing
diving
disappearing
into roiling waves of
the cold grey Atlantic
I fixed my gaze
paced
waited
helpless
And then on a stretch of beach
far to my right
he arrived like a proud seal
Copyright Kristin Strid 2009
Love Note
from a Beach House
Our identical madness
for seashore walks
quiet talks watching
sandpipers in tall grasses
for delighting in things
like an early spring
arriving quietly to surprise us
reminds me
what a gift we have
no constant giving in by one
or playing games of strength
on issues of no consequence
but sharing grapefruits and bee-stings
and the covers in an old wicker bed
Kristin Strid from The Swimming Lesson Copyright 1993
My Thermostat
I think that I am happiest in the fall
the yellow mums out front grow wild
I shine the brass candlesticks
light the fire
we eat in the dining room
all together for soup and stew
I dunk my gingersnaps in hot tea
and the cold dark comes early
The first night under our quilt
I slip out of my flannel gown
and rub my feet on yours
Kristin Strid from The Swimming Lesson Copyright 1993
Protection
Six am
sleet ticks at the window
I sneak from bed
leave you sleeping in the dark
I pull on a green wool sweater
over pajamas
like every day I
wind the grandfather clock
brew hot tea
fetch the morning paper
frozen by the curb
in the cold kitchen
you appear
naked
unshaven
afraid I might have slipped on the ice
copyright, Kristin Strid, 2009
Biographical Note for Kristin Flick Strid:
I started writing stories and poetry as a young mother of five, sneaking time at my typewriter while the children napped. In the early 80’s I enrolled in an autobiographical writing class and have been there ever since. Every Monday morning I would steal away to my secret place, behind the heavy wooden doors, in the parlor of the old Victorian house, where we read each other’s work, talked, and listened to each other. It was there, engrossed in the works of my classmates, that I forgot if we were out of milk, if the dog needed his shots, and didn’t care what was for dinner. I made many life-long friendships and began to learn the art of good writing. My published works include The Swimming Lesson, an eighty-three page collection of poetry, two children’s stories, and inclusion in Monday Mornings, an anthology of short stories and poetry.